H poet ot tbe poor 



perfection in our vision. He is rich enough, 

 he *' cares no more for winter than does a 

 toothless old man for nuts," and by this 

 we discover that he himself is in the habit 

 of cracking walnuts with his molars ! 



Lissome Bombyca, men dare call thee swart, 

 Meager, and sunburned; only I can see 

 That thy dear face pale honey-color is. 

 The violet is dark, and the legend-bearing iris, 

 Yet these for garlands are the chosen flowers. 



What a clod! yet could sincerity possi- 

 bly be better expressed ? The starved 

 soul in the hind makes the absolute sacri- 

 fice of love. No matter what men say, to 

 him the emaciated, bilious wench is all 

 that imagination can paint of beauty. 



The goat goes after cytisus ; the wolf is fain 

 To catch the goat ; behind the plow the crane 

 Feeds i' the furrow ; but I, I long for thee. 



Not so many years ago I was at a wed- 

 ding. The groom was a 'sang-digger; the 

 bride stood up barefoot to take the vows 

 of Hymen. Evidently the twain were 

 rapturously in love. 



105 



